I was literally born on a bus somewhere between Austin and Nashville. Both my parents are musicians. It sounds romantic, but as a kid it mostly felt like people leaving for the next gig.

When I was six, my sister Mila and I moved in with Nana & Pop in Watseka, Illinois. That’s where things finally steadied.

Nana ran the house with lists on the fridge and quiet hugs.

Pop taught me to fix things and gave me his lucky guitar pick.

That house smelled like roast dinners, motor oil and old hymnals.

My family is mixed – Native American and Black on my mum’s side, German and Irish on my dad’s. I grew up hearing stories about where we came from, what people had been through, and what it takes to keep going. Those stories live in my songs.

Mila is eight years older, so for a long time she felt more like a second parent than a sister. She taught me eyeliner, talked me down when everything felt too big, and sent playlists when I didn’t have the words. When she moved to Chicago, I was ten. I missed her so much I started writing letters I never sent. Later, they became songs.

My dad and I are close now. He knows how hard it is to make music and still keep the lights on, so he helps where he can. He shows up, knows the lyrics, and texts me the lines he likes.

I miss Watseka more than I admit: the big sky, the quiet roads, my friends Nancy and Jen, and how the dogs would lean into you like you were the answer. But I needed to leave.

At eighteen, Mila and I found a tiny place in Logan Square. Chicago shook the dust off me. The ‘L’, late-night tacos on Milwaukee Avenue, coffee strong enough to hurt.

I work at venues, then chase songs at 2 a.m. when the radiators hiss and the city finally goes quiet.